The Crow's Feather
by MsBarrows
Summary: A oneshot written for a prompt on the k!meme, in which Zevran tattoos his male lover using the ritual he describes to Alistair in party banter in-game. Rated M for mildly smutty m/m bit. An Arren & Co. story.


Zevran crawled into the tent he shared with his mage. Owen was awake, stretched out on his stomach, wearing just a pair of short draw-string breeches. He craned his head around to see who was entering, and smiled, rolling over on his side. Zevran rose to a crouch, moving over to lean down and exchange a kiss with him, before turning to what he'd come into their tent after, a tunic in need of repairs and his sewing kit.

"So I was talking with Alistair on watch last night," Owen said, voice low and amused.

"Oh? About anything interesting?" Zevran asked as he rooted through his backpack for the tunic.

"Mmm, yes. He was telling me about a time shortly after you'd first joined Arren's party. Something about an offer to tattoo him?"

Zevran paused, casting his mind back, then laughed. "I remember. Our Alistair has a most delicious blush. I used to enjoy teasing him."

Owen gave a low laugh. "You _still_ enjoy teasing him," he scolded gently.

Zevran turned his head to smile at the mage. "Of course. But he is much more difficult to tease since he took up with the little mage."

Owen grinned, then rolled over on his back, hands folded beneath his head, still watching Zevran. His eyes were half-shut, his voice low, when he continued speaking. "I was quite... _intrigued_... with his description of the process you proposed to use before tattooing him. The careful bathing, the massage..."

Zevran's smile widened into an outright grin as he glanced over at the mage again. "All a lie, of course. A pity he did not accept, it would have been enjoyable to have an excuse to have my hands on him. He has a quite fine body. I wonder if he'd have believed it if I claimed I needed to tie him down so he could not wiggle away while I tattooed him?"

Owen snorted. "Probably not. He didn't really believe you about the rosewater and olives either. He may have been an innocent, but he's not _naive_."

Zevran nodded in agreement. "No, he's quite intelligent, actually. He used to use his innocence like he wields his sword and shield, as a weapon to keep others at a distance. Not so innocent any more, of course. Nor so distant, at least from his _poco mago_. I think that is part of what made his blushes so delicious, actually, knowing that my words didn't go over his head, but instead straight to his loins."

Owen snorted again. "Enough of our warrior friend. What I was wanting to say was, I was thinking how much I'd enjoy it if you gave me a tattoo. Following the procedure you outlined."

Zevran paused, tunic and kit in hand, and looked thoughtfully at his mage. "Really?" he asked, more than a hint of interest in his voice.

"Yes, really."

"The ingredients needed may be hard to obtain..." Zevran said hesitantly. "Rosewater and olive oil are not something we carry with us..."

Owen slowly smiled. "I'm sure we can improvise and find... acceptable substitutes. And Alistair said you claimed to have the inks and needles needed?"

"I... yes. I learned the art so I could add to my own tattoos, as necessary," he said, mouth going dry at the heated look Owen was giving him.

Owen nodded; he knew already that each of the curving tattoos that wound down and around Zevran's body represented significant events in the assassin's life; mainly people he'd killed.

"We'll be staying at an inn tomorrow night, according to what Arren was saying earlier today. Plan to do it there."

"What... is there anything in particular you'd like me to tattoo on you?" Zevran asked warily.

Owen shrugged, and smiled. "I leave it up to you. It would be nice if the tattoo is some place I can see it, of course. Apart from that, feel free to be... creative."

Zevran nodded, mind already racing, trying to recall what he'd described to Alistair so many months ago, and already planning how to turn it into an erotic ritual with his mage, what additions to make. Candles. Yes, it would be best done by candlelight. And...

"Need anything else?" the mage asked.

Zevran blinked, recalling himself, and looked dumbly down for a moment at the torn tunic and sewing kit still held in his hand. "No, I have what I came for," he answered, and crawled back out of the tent to sit in the fading light and repair the tunic, while his mind raced with plans for the next evening.

* * *

><p>They reached the inn late the next evening, having been delayed by an encounter with a sizable force of darkspawn. By the time they'd killed them all, and healed up afterwards, it had begun to look as if they'd stay the night in a camp in the wilderness again. But Arren decided to push on, make it to the inn, and stay there for a day of rest before they moved on again.<p>

They were all too tired to do anything but eat a meal and go to their beds; the tattooing would have to be put off until the following night.

At least it gave him time to be properly prepared for it, Zevran thought as he browsed through the village market the next day. He made several small purchases, and returned to the inn in a very good mood, already anticipating the evening alone with his mage.

They had a large chamber, with a private bath. Zevran spent some time spreading out his purchases, putting them handy to where they'd be needed, before going back downstairs to join everyone for supper. He stopped on the way, buttonholing one of the inn's servants and arranging for the bath to be filled once they'd finished eating.

The meal was a pleasant one, everyone in a good mood after a day of rest from their travels. Judging by the way Arren and Morrigan had their heads bent together, and the teasing Alistair was receiving from Jowan, the pair of them weren't the only ones with plans for this evening. It wasn't long after the meal ended before people started heading off to their rooms, though the unattached members of their party elected by-and-large to remain downstairs in the common room to spend the evening in drink and talk.

They'd no sooner returned to their room when there was a tap at the door. Zevran hurried to answer it, admitting a group of servants carting sizable metal cans of water, steam wafting from the surface. It took them two trips to fill the bath, after which Zevran carefully added just enough cold water so as not to scald his mage. He helped Owen disrobe and step into the tub before beginning to peel off his own clothing, stripping down to just his breeches.

"Not going to join me in the tub?" Owen asked, swirling the water with his fingertips.

"Not this time, no," Zevran said, and picked up a cloth and a container of a mixture he'd been quite pleased to find at an apothecary. He carefully worked the cork out, then smeared some of the gritty contents on the washcloth.

"What's that?" Owen asked.

"Well, if we were back in Antiva, it would be a mix of olive oil and the ground pits of the fruit. Here in Ferelden it is a similar substance made of ground nut shells and hempseed oil, scented with..." he paused and sniffed at the jar. "Rosemary, I believe. The purpose is to remove grime and dead skin from the body."

Owen nodded, and settled back again in the bath. Zevran set to work, scrubbing gently at his hands and arms, and his chest, before having the mage lean forward so he could scrub at his broad back. He paused every now and then to tip in a little more hot water from a towel-wrapped can left sitting handy to the bath, to keep the water nice and relaxingly hot.

He enjoyed pampering his mage, and once he'd cleaned his body, spent several minutes caring for his nails while Owen relaxed back in the tub again, before turning to his hair. The citrus scent of Owen's preferred soap seemed to blend quite cordially with the rosemary scent of the exfoliating scrub, Zevran was pleased to notice.

He helped him out of the tub, quickly towelling him dry, then led Owen back into the bedroom and over to the bed, all pink and sweet from his bath. "Lie face-down, please," he told the mage, then took a spill and lit it at the fire, hurriedly circling the room to light the dark yellow beeswax candles he'd purchased that afternoon. They filled the room with a soft golden glow and a pleasant sweet honey scent. Owen looked around and made an approving sound, before resting his head on crossed arms.

Zevran picked up one of his purchases, and moved to straddle the mage's waist. He opened the container, pouring out a dollop of scented oil – juniper, this time – and began massaging Owen, staring with his neck and shoulders, working his way down. He had to reposition himself occasionally, as he worked his way down Owen's body. Owen made one of his growling sounds of approval when Zevran was straddling his hips, and lifted his hips a little, pushing pointedly back against Zevran's half-erect cock.

"Later perhaps, _mi corazón_ – tattoo first," Zevran gently chided him. Owen snorted, but subsided. He worked the rest of the way down, pausing to give Owen a thorough foot massage that had the mage groaning appreciatively. "Turn over, please," he asked, and then worked his way back up Owen's body.

When he slid up to straddle Owen's thighs and begin work on his stomach and hips, the mage lifted himself up on his elbows, giving Zevran a dark, heated look, and then pointed with his chin at his own erection. "Do something about that before you go any further," Owen ordered.

Zevran smiled slightly. "As you say," he said, and after re-anointing his hands with a little extra oil, closed them around the mage's erection, one above the other, and began massaging it much as he'd handled the rest of the man, thumbs pressing firmly along the sensitive underside as his fingers slid and squeezed rhythmically along the swollen flesh. Owen remained up on his elbows, watching through half-closed eyes, and making little sound of pleasure at intervals.

"Yourself, too," the man growled after a while.

Zevran looked up from his work. "My hands are not big enough," he pointed out, which was not quite true; he could have managed to handle both of them, but not easily or well, and he wanted to do this _well_.

Owen snorted, then changed position, sitting up and raising his knees at the same time, so Zevran slid down his oiled thighs to press groin-to-groin against the mage, making a startled yelp at the sudden movement. Owen cupped his hands in front of him. "Oil," he demanded.

Zevran released the man's erection, and picked up the oil, pouring some out into Owen's hands. The mage swiftly coated his palms and fingers, then reached down between them, enclosing both their erections in his own much larger hands.

"Your hands, too," the mage growled.

Zevran bit his lip in indecision for a moment, then cupped one hand over the tips of their erection, and found room to fit his own hand in between both of Owen's, his fingers wedged between Owen's thumbs, his thumb fitting into the space between Owen's fingers. Owen began slowly imitating the massaging motions Zevran had been using. Zevran hissed and jerked at the sensation, then began to do the same. For a moment all was silent save for their gasps and the slide of oiled hands on oiled flesh.

Owen leaned back a little, stomach going taut, a hard position to hold with nothing behind his back to hold him up. "Move, if you can," he grated at Zevran. Zevran nodded, taking up more of his weigh on his own knees and off of Owen, then gave a tentative roll of his hips. Owen had to loosen his grip slightly, then on the next roll Zevran's erection was able to slide freely through the cylinder of their hands, the undersides of their erections rubbing together. Both men cried out at the sensation. Owen slowly unfolded, knees till raised but back lowering to the bed, as Zevran pumped into their hands. The differing pressures as the angle of their hands changed was... _exquisite_, was the only word Zevran could think of for it. He could feel Owen's erection jerking and swelling toward orgasm, and felt his own respond in kind. Their hoarse shouts sounded almost perfectly together as they both came, seed spurting out around Zevran's cupped hand to drip across Owen's belly.

Owen lay sprawled on his back for a moment, hands lifting away and held out to the sides, up in the air, glistening with oil and their seed. "Good," he husked.

Zevran nodded, and leaned over to pick up one of the clean rags he'd left handy to the bed, and wiped them clean; Owen's hands first, then Owen's belly, then their cocks. He cleaned his own hands meticulously as well, before taking up more oil. He continued his massage, working his way up Owen's stomach and chest, then out along each long arm, ending with massaging his hands as thoroughly as he'd massaged his feet earlier.

Owen was quiet and relaxed in the aftermath, just lying back with eyes shut and enjoying being handled, something he liked almost as much as Zevran himself did. His eyes only reopened when Zevran moved away again.

"Now what?" he asked.

Zevran smiled fondly at the man. "Now I do terrible, painful things to you and hope you remember that you _asked_ me to," the elf said.

Owen snorted, and smiled back at the elf with equal fondness. "And where am I being tattooed?"

Zevran leaned forward, cupping his hand around the man's right arm, on the outside curve, just above the elbow. "Starting here," he said, "And flowing like so." He ran his hand up and around, crossing the swell of Owen's bicep – much more sizable now from all the sword-handling the arcane warrior did than it had been when they'd first met – and ending up just shy of where the arm joined the shoulder.

"And the pattern?"

Zevran grinned. "You will see. But not until it's done. I will trust you to keep your eyes shut, unless you'd prefer a blindfold?"

Owen laughed. "I'll shut my eyes," he said, then smiled at Zevran, eyes twinkling mischievously. "But perhaps we can find a use for the blindfold later, if I'm happy enough with your work."

Zevran shivered slightly, and smiled back. "Of course," he said.

"How do you want me?" Owen asked, voice low and intense. Zevran gave another shudder at the words – ones it was normally _his _place to ask – and smiled at the mage from under half-lowered eyes.

"On your left side, facing away from me, to start," he said, his own voice husky. Owen nodded and rolled over.

Zevran leaned over and picked up the closed box of tattooing supplies from where he'd left it on the bedside table earlier. He opened it, and took out the bottle of ink and the finest of his needles, and settled down comfortably, looking at Owen's arm and fixing in his head the image he wished to render. Once he was sure he had it clear in his head, he bent down, lightly pricking in a few faint marks here and there, indicating where certain major elements of the design would lie. Then he started on the real work, switching to different sized clusters of needles at intervals, patting excess ink, blood and serum off as needed so he could see what he was doing, eventually signalling to Owen to roll onto his back, so he could work on the front surfaces of the design easily.

Owen lay very still, eyes shut, breathing deep and even, as Zevran worked. The assassin lost track of time. Hours, it must have been, while the candles slowly burned down. Finally he sat back, dropping the last of the tools back in the box and putting it aside. He gently cleaned the skin a final time.

"It is done," he said.

Owen opened his eyes and sat up, turning his head to look down at his arm.

A dark feather lay just above his elbow, curved around his outer arm, cupped upwards as if in the act of falling. Dark smoke-like strands peeled away from it, twisting gradually into shapes like flying birds as they curved up and around his arm, ending with a small but recognizable crow on the front of his shoulder, in the join between arm and body, its watchful golden eye the only colour other than black used in the design.

"It's beautiful," Owen whispered.

Zevran smiled, pleased. "It will be sore for some time," he cautioned the mage.

Owen snorted, then cupped his left hand over the tattoo, a healing glow springing up around his hand as he slid it up his arm, along the path of the tattoo.

"...or perhaps not," Zevran said, smiling and shaking his head. "I could wish I had access to similar powers, all the times I have been tattooed."

Owen smiled warmly back at him, then leaned forward, cupping his hand around the back of the elf's head, and drawing him in for a lengthy, tender kiss.

"Thank you," the mage said, softly, as he sat back again. "Next time you add to your own, I want to watch, and see how it's done," he added, then his lips quirked into a lopsided smile. "Maybe I'll even learn how, so I can return the favour some day."

Zevran laughed. "Perhaps. It it not that hard to learn how to do, though learning to do it _well_ is another issue."

Owen nodded, then smiled slowly again. "Now, I believe there was talk of a blindfold, and a special reward for you if I liked the design? Which I do. Very much," he finished, voice a husky growl.

Zevran laughed, and went in search of a suitable length of cloth.


End file.
